Providence
by Felix McKraken
Summary: Vegeta is the sole survivor from an enemy's attack. After losing the will to live, he finds that commiting suicide is no easy task. However, things start to change when he meets another just like himself.. WARNING: LANGUAGE & BRIEF SEXUALITY.
1. Introduction

A/N: This is chapter one.  
  
**Providence**  
_formerly known as: Untitled (6)_  
  
My life is shit.  
  
I'm not saying that the entirety of it is shit. It has been shit, and currently is shit. However, it has not always been this way.  
  
Right now, I live in some sort of half-way house and have a goddamned curfew. I'm an adult with a curfew for fuck's sake. As if I could feel any more insulted.  
  
My current infatuation is my suicide, considering how I cannot commit it. It is simply not only my pride, but my strength. I wish to do it because I feel I deserve such a punishment. If I had any honor, I would be dead by now, in order to not shame myself and the reason for my self-homicide: my family.  
  
A long time ago, I cared nothing for them. Now, it is agony to live without them. They perished because of me; because I was too weak to protect them. I should have died in their place, or, at least, with them. I have lost the only things I had grown to treasure, and there is nothing that can replace that void inside of me.  
  
It happened several years ago. I should have seen it coming, for how often history repeated itself. How could I have been so blind? Perhaps I was destined to be. That has always been my problem: too focused on one thing to miss the bigger picture. I was too focused to save them.  
  
Millions of people died in the attack, including my family and..friends. I survived by a weird stroke of luck. Uub finally followed in his mentor's footsteps. I envy the boy, but cannot hate him as I have hated his teacher.  
  
Uub found me in the debris and offered his help. I refused it. How could I accept him? I did not deem it appropriate. He let me be.  
  
At first, I thought I could handle it. I knew they were in Heaven. I knew I would die, sometime. The pain, however, intensified with time, and now it is too much to bear. Nothing distracts me from the memories of _their_ pain. Nothing is here to give me solace from my failure.  
  
It was unlike me to feel this..this sensation - this ache. My eyes burned and my throat was raw for many nights. Quite frequently enough, they still become that way. Nothing could ebb the pain, and nothing could appease the depression. I had never known depression before. Humiliation had plagued me, but it was not as intense as this emotion. This saddness consumed me - consumes me - in every thing I do in every day life. Every where I go, I am reminded of my family being murdered.  
  
Sometimes, I wonder if it is because I have done such atrocities. Is this karma or coincidence? Either way, there is no escape from it. A lonely bed greets me every night. It is silent and still in my residence.  
  
It is true: You should never have to bury your own children.  
  
They shouldn't of suffered because of my mistakes.  
  
I mourn for them. I have for the past several years. At first, I knew it was a normal response. As time went on, I suspected..something else. I was not eating on a consistant basis. I had trouble focusing (or being distracted from the pain, depending on how you look at it). I found myself unable to function as I normally did. I couldn't even train anymore. I let my pride crumble away until I eradicated it by seeking outside help.  
  
"I want to kill myself." I told a doctor, some several years ago.  
  
"Why?" he'd asked.  
  
"Because I don't want to fucking live." I said.  
  
I don't like doctors, much less ones that analyze your life and try to convince you that things can, and will, get better.  
  
Needless to say, I was deemed a threat to myself. I was put into a half-way house sort-of-thing. I live with other people who may or may not be suicidal. Most of them move in and out pretty quick, but I am a resident now, not just a guest.  
  
There's a lady on the first floor called Mrs. Tarintino. She's sort of like the land lord, and she has to check up on me. If I don't come home by curfew, she has to call the police. When I eventually come home, she scolds me before making me hot cocoa and shipping me off to bed. Never, in my whole life, has anyone treated me in such a way. I pity her, because she cares about me.  
  
Due to this fact (that she cares for me), I have given her a few good scares. The first time I tried to kill myself, I threw my body over the sixth floor balconey. My room is 603, and I decided that trying to end my life sounded a lot better than moping around all night like an insomniac. I landed directly on my head, where I proceed to cry because I had managed to somehow not be deceased. At this point, and until this day, I have no pride to interfere with my physical expression of inner pain. I let myself cry because it barely fends off more intense negative feelings. Mrs. Tarintino took me to the hospital where they found no injuries.  
  
Later, I attempted to overdose on over-the-counter medication. I went to the nearest pharmacy and bought several boxes of Tylenol® and NyQuil® and proceeded to down them all at once. What resulted was the biggest vomit fest I'd ever endured. My body outright rejected the overdose and refused to digest it, choosing instead to expel it all in a massive torrent of what I can only describe as extreme nastiness. Mrs. Tarintino felt bad for me, and helped clean everything up. She's a brave, old lady for enduring that kind of mess.  
  
I even tried to hang myself. Mrs. Tarintino screamed when she came into my room and found me with my feet dangling in midair. I assured her that I was still alive by saying, "Don't worry, nothing's happened for four hours, so I doubt I'll stop breathing any time soon."  
  
She thinks it's a miracle and a blessing that I haven't died yet. I think it's a curse. What good am I if I can't even kill myself?  
  
I tried to explain this to my various therapists, but they don't seem to understand. I lost my family due to my own stupidity, how am I supposed to just move on from this?  
  
One lady suggested that every time I start getting suicidal thoughts, that I should do something that makes me happy. I tried this approach, with little success. Firstly, I tried training, but it reminded me too much of all the fights I've lost, particularly this last one. I tried to do the things I enjoyed with my wife and/or kids, but it always reminded me of them. I tried making friends, but I'm too honest and my life is too unbelieveable for them. Most people think I made up my history to counter for my tremendous loss. I wish I had. I wish it was that easy.  
  
The only thing that seemed to work was self-gratification. I can force myself to focus on this one simple task, and if I do it enough, it wears me out. Sleep is also one of the few times I am not tormented. I have difficulty deciding which is better: the bliss of unconsciousness or the bliss of an orgasm. Sometimes my wife haunts me, because the self-induced pleasure will remind me of the pleasure she had given me. Sometimes, I'm haunted in my dreams, by any number of things. It's difficult to say which is worse.  
  
I have no hobbies. Most of the time I sit around thinking, but following what that lady - Dr. Reilly - suggested, I end up masturbating on a consistant basis. Thinking makes me depressed, and the more I think, the more depressed I become, hence my dilemma. I couldn't even consider having sex with anyone else, as it would dishonor the memory of my wife. I know she is waiting for me.  
  
So this leaves me in an awkward stage. I cannot kill myself to join the ones I love, and I cannot find any enjoyment in my life.  
  
My life is shit. 


	2. Break Down

**Providence**  
_formerly known as: Untitled (6)_  
  
I choose now to leave my room and go for a walk. I must be weaker than I used to be, due to not training all the time. I'm still "healthy" though. I stop by the front desk to tell Mrs. Tarintino where I'm going and when I should be back.  
  
"Okay, dear," she says, "Why don't you try the new walking trail in the park? I'm sure that would be nice."  
  
"Thanks," I reply, "I just might do that."  
  
I follow her advice.  
  
It's an okay night. The breeze is nice, but the humidity is thick. The trail is littered with other people. Unlike a lot of cities, where the parks become hazardous at night, this one is peaceful. There is no fear of lurking muggers; too many witnesses are present, and too many police officers are camped around. Off in the field, a group of friends play with a glow-in-the-dark football. Kids skate past me, laughing as they race each other. It's nice atmosphere, for a moment, to know that regular people can enjoy the park without the safety of sunlight.  
  
However...the couples, the families, the smiling people...make me realize how terribly alone I am.  
  
She would have loved to come here...  
  
I break off the trail and head away from voices until the conversations become nothing more than a distant murmur. I move towards the forest, where the light is scarce. Damn me and my cowardice! I seclude myself away in a futile attempt to forget about the happiness that other people have.  
  
...to forget the happiness _I_ once had...  
  
I sniff hard as my nose threatens to run. My strides are wide as I walk through the woods. I feel so stupid, but I still cannot resist the tightening of my throat. I finally come to the last tree, and then I'm in the open again. The crickets chirp, and I hear the croaking of frogs, but they are the only noises that persist. There is a pond here. I collapse near the shoreline.  
  
I stare out at the gently rippling water before I lie back. I search the night sky above, as if it would give me answers. It offers nothing.  
  
My vision blurs and I forcibly swallow. She would have loved to come here.  
My breath is turning erratic. She would have loved to...  
With a shuddering exhale, I feel my eyes burn with tears.  
..Bulma....  
  
It starts slowly, but, gradually, the crying builds. My chest aches as I sob, and I shamefully cover my face as I weep. It's not a wail, but more of a quiet breakdown.  
  
After awhile, I calm down. My breathing is deep and even now. I look up at the same sky, but blankly this time.  
  
Long ago, I lost my planet, my people, and my family. Here...this is not my planet. These are not my people. My family, though, has been murdered, again.  
  
I close my eyes and turn my head to the side. I cannot afford to mourn for those old tragedies as well. I need something to distract me. I need to forget.  
  
It happens like an automatic response. My hands go for my belt buckle, fumbling nervously from shaking hands. My heart pounds hard in my chest as if sensing my desperation. I feel like I'd do anything to forget this pain.  
  
Anything...  
  
I unbutton my khakis and unzip the fly. Hastily, I shove my boxers out of the way. I hesitate for a moment.  
  
How pathetic is it of me that every time I want to die, I must self-gratify instead?  
  
My hand descends and coils my limp member. I close my eyes and will myself to concentrate on what I'm doing. This is my hand. This is my hand stroking my penis. Doesn't it feel good? Yes. Good. Ignore everything else. _Everything_.  
  
I breathe in deep, panting gasps as pleasure starts to twinge through me. It doesn't take long for me to become hard and aching. Warmth radiates from me now as I steadily pump my erection. I focus on the ecstacy. I tremble from the effort, not just the physical, but the mental as well. I have to restrain myself from thinking beyond here and now.  
  
"Ahhhh! Hssss..nnn...." noises start spilling from my lips. I arch slightly, using my free arm for support. Random curse words flit across my mind, but I refrain from saying any of them. "Uhhnnn..." a moan escapes me as my eyebrows knit together in concentration. It's particulary difficult today; I strain myself from just trying to keep mind on the simple act of masturbating. Muscles bunch and tense and I feel sweat trickle down the side of my face.  
  
My breath is harsh, rasping, and my lungs feel hot and heavy. My panting feels more like gasping, and I can feel cramps coming on. No! I won't be distracted! Not even that kind of pain will steal from this "happiness"! I slow my strokes and try to relax. "..Nngh...haaahh..." I'm surprised I can still groan for how thick the air seems now. My eyes open, mere slits looking up at a blurry night sky.  
  
It feels good..so..good...slow. My breath gains some sense of regularity as I pump in an easy rythym. My erection throbs, desperatly wanting more. I resist the urge to indulge in a frenzy. Rather, I allow myself to quicken, but only slightly. "MMnnh..!" I make a whining, keening noise. I readjust my grip and pull firmly, but not roughly. "AAAA..hhh!" the first part of a scream rolls into a shudder. My eyes squeeze shut from the pleasure that is mounting, doubling by the second.  
  
"S-Shit!" I hiss out. I had been doing so well.. I've gone without for a few days... "Ahhn! Hssss.... F..F..Fuck! Ooooh..." but I know when I start cursing that it's inevitable. Nothing could stop me now. Endless profanity issues forth from my mouth, some of it not even in English. My eyes open again, to watch what I'm doing to myself; to ensure that my goal will be achieved; to make sure I won't think of anything else.  
  
I can't watch too well because, I realize, I'm crying. I don't even care.  
  
My muscles tense again, warning me of what is about to happen. I bite my lip and try to breathe. And then...  
  
Orgasm.  
  
I can't help it; I scream. Thick streams of semen splash across my abdomen and chest. I've been building up for awhile, so there's a lot of it. I try to drag air into my deprived lungs as my head spins in a post-climatic daze. I lay on the ground limply, hearing my heart beat pound in my ears.  
  
"Unn..." I hear myself say, but it's faint.  
  
Eventually, with my entire body trembling, I pull myself into a sitting position and fix my pants back to the way they were. I have to take a second to recover from the exertion of just doing that. I wrap my arms around my knees, enjoying the cool breeze as it dries my skin.  
  
I'm completely spent. I could just fall asleep right now and it'd be perfect. One great orgasm followed by a nice nap in the park. It couldn't get any better.  
  
Time passes slowly.  
  
And then..  
  
"Excuse me," a masculine voice cuts through the dark.  
  
My eyes open in surprise. I had been right. It couldn't of gotten any _better_.  
  
I can't even compose myself. I thought I had been alone, but maybe I was wrong. A flashlight shines on the side of my face.  
  
"I had a report of a..domestic disturbance," the voice says.  
  
Ah. An officer of the law. I don't have the energy to take off, nor the will to argue.  
  
"..Indecent exposure..." the cop trails off. I think he's nervous because I haven't spoken yet.  
  
My first attempt doesn't make it out of my throat. I swallow and attempt again. "Yeah," I say, because he wouldn't understand that I need that kind of gratification. He wouldn't get it that when I need it, I need it right then. He wouldn't comprehend the fact that something as simple as the "conversation" we're having makes me want to kill myself because my blissful fucking moment is over and all I have to look forward to is getting hot cocoa when I walk in the door of that assigned apartment building because I'm "home" before curfew.  
  
"You know this is a public place," he states rather than asks. I can always hear the difference.  
  
"Yeah," I say, staring out ahead of me.  
  
"That means other people are around," he elaborates, slowly berating me, scolding me like I'm a pervert. I could care less if other people watch me. It's not like I get off on their presence. It's their fault if they watch me. I'm just trying to forget... everything. I just want a little bit of happiness, is that too much to ask!?  
  
"Y-Yeah," I choke out pathetically. Oh, damn it all to Hell. I'm crying again. I stare intensely at the pond in front of me, trying hard not to look at this stranger.  
  
"Hey, uh.." the guy fumbles for something to say, "Just don't do it again, ok? I'll let you off with a warning..."  
  
I don't even care anymore. I can't even masturbate without upsetting someone. I can't even make myself happy without pissing someone off or grossing them out. This is pathetic!  
  
"Fuck it all!" I yell, "It's not worth it!" I use the last of my reserves to leap up and forward, plunging my head into the pond. I exhale from a shuddering sob, and try to ignore the thoughts of algae, sediment, and various insects that pollute the water.  
  
Hands wrap around my waist and I'm jerked backwards. I land hard on my back, still crying as the cop holds me down and requests for backup. I'm nearing hysterics and I just let myself go for the moment...  
  
---  
  
The new arrival wraps a towel around my shoulders. The tears finally stopped coming, and I sit, sniffing every once in awhile. I push some of my wet hair away from my face. Once they're certain I don't want to try to sink myself in Davey Jones' mini-locker, they begin to question me.  
  
"What's your name?" the new-comer asks. They're a female.  
  
"Vegeta," my voice just above a whisper. My throat feels raw.  
  
"Do you have a driver's license or a form of I.D., Vegeta?" she asks politely. Not sweetly, not degradingly, just nicely and politely, she asks.  
  
I nod, "In my wallet. It's in my back, right pocket."  
  
"Could you get it for me?"  
  
I don't really want to, but I do it anyways. It takes too much of my strength away. I hand it to her because she's the closest one to me. "Feel free to look through it," I say.  
  
They fall back and discuss said contents. Of course, there's all the information you could ever want and more in there. A picture I.D. (I'm not allowed to drive) and all about how I'm suicidal (which is why I can't drive because I'm a danger to others), how I live with Mrs. Tarintino, have a curfew, and..everything. I have a picture of Bulma and the kids in there. It's hiding in one of the more difficult to access recesses.  
  
They come back. One kneels and one stands. "Vegeta," it's the male speaking; he's also the one kneeling, "My name is Officer Kimbell. This is Officer Greenly. She's going to call Mrs. Tarintino and inform her that you may be home late tonight. We want to take you out for some coffee. Is that okay?"  
  
It must be a slow night if they're fraternizing with criminals. Oh well. How can I really refuse? "Yeah, that's fine," I reply hoarsely. They give me my wallet back which I put away. Then, they help me stand and walk. We exit a different route than I took in, and in a matter of minutes we're walking under street lamps once more. My legs feel like I'm wearing weights on them.  
  
They escort me into the back of a police car. Now that I think about it, they're probably taking me off to the looney bin. They probably wanted me to come peacefully and quietly. Oh well. I listen to their radio because it's the only thing that breaks the silence besides the hum of the engine and street noise. I may not understand what they're saying, but it's something to occupy the drive time.  
  
We slow and finally come to a stop. I'm surprised to see a Waffle House rather than the police station. The two cops get out, and Kimbell opens the door for me. I manage to exit the vehicle, even if it is on wobbly legs. I leave the blanket in the car. Kimbell opens the door of the establishment and holds it for Greenly and I. We sit at a booth with myself on one side and the cops occupying the other.  
  
I stare out the window while trying to ignore their stares. Finally, a waitress sees to us.  
  
"What can I get for ya?" she asks. Her name is "Bridgett" or so says her name badge.  
  
"Coffee. Black, please," Kimbell requests.  
  
"Coffee. Cream, with no sugar," Greenly says.  
  
Three pairs of eyes turn and look expectantly at me. I have never liked coffee. Bulma was the one fond of it. "A water, I guess," my voice sounds rough when I speak at a more normal level. My vocal chords want a rest.  
  
Bridgett repeats the order, the officers confirm, and she runs off to fulfill it.  
  
"I know this is going to seem rude," Kimbell begins to say. I raise an eyebrow, and he leans back in the booth. With a sigh, he finishes, "but why did you just try to kill yourself?"  
  
Oh.  
  
I pull out my wallet and dig through it. I manage to weasel out a piece of paper I seek and I carefully lie it on the table before him. He reaches forward and picks it up. He looks from the photo to me, and back to the photo. "My wife.." I speak lowly, unsure that this stability will hold, "..and kids..." I pause, to collect myself. "They're dead." I can't help it, I whisper the last sentence.  
  
Greenly excuses herself from the table.  
  
Kimbell hands the photo back, and we just stare at one another until our drinks arrive. He sips his and sighs in satisfaction. "So..is there anything we can do for you?" Kimbell offers, "We'd like to make you as comfortable as possible."  
  
"You mean, anything besides killing me?" I ask with a sarcastic, cocky grin.  
  
"Yeah," he agrees, "besides that."  
  
"No, I think I'm doing ok other than that. Thanks," I respond, trying not to laugh. It all seems so absurd. Everything sounds so ludicrous: my desire to die, the fact I have to masturbate whenever I get intensely depressed, that fact that I live in a half-way house and actually put up with a curfew, how I got caught in public, how these cops want to help me out, and how I'm sitting here now thinking about all this. Completely absurd. Completely ludicrous.  
  
If this had happened to me thirty, maybe forty, years ago... Well, for starters, I'd be dead. I would have made sure of that. I would've fought my enemy to the death. Not to the point where they merely assumed I'm dead, but to the point where they'd _know_ I'm really-really fucking dead.  
  
Well..pretending that I hadn't died in the attack... Hmm...  
  
Kakkarot would've saved the day. Simple as that.  
  
I take a drink of my water, and it feels great to my throat. I close my eyes and gulp it down in relief. When the glass is empty, I eat some of ice for the soothing sensation it brings. Kimbell is watching me intensely. I say nothing, and neither does he.  
  
Finally, Greenly comes back. "Here you go," she says to me, handing me a thing of cloth, "The bathroom's that way." She points in the direction. Confused, I followed her not-so-subtle request, and go into the restroom. I unfold the fabric to reveal a t-shirt. I look down at myself.  
  
Oh.  
  
I guess all the dry semen was irking her. I don't blame her. I take off my shirt, turn it inside out, and fold it up neatly. Then I put on the shirt she got me. It has that fool's name on it - SATAN - in big, bold letters. She probably bought this at a nearby gas station. I look at myself in the mirror.  
  
I look like shit. My eyes are red and puffy, but with dark circles underneath. I'm carrying a five o'clock shadow along with me as well. I turn the faucet on for cold water and I wash my hands, then my face. I look back up at myself as I breathe heavy and use the sink for support.  
  
Get.  
A.  
Hold.  
Of.  
Your.  
Self.  
  
This is not the way the Prince of Saijins should be acting.  
  
I have lost everything before, I should be able to recover again! Remember what it was like, I tell myself, living with Freiza? Remember how badly it had hurt, but remember how you never broke down?  
  
I release a deep, shuddering sigh and turn off the faucet. I tear off some paper towel from the dispenser and dry myself off.  
  
I never broke down because...  
  
I was already broken.  
  
Instead of feeling sad, I just feel tired. Really tired. I wish I could go to sleep and never wake up again. I'll have to settle for a good, long rest for now. I pick up my shirt and drag my feet as I walk back to the booth.  
  
Besides, I think to myself, it's better now. Now, I cry instead of commiting mass murder. 


	3. Josie

**Providence**  
_formerly known as: Untitled (6)_  
  
Mrs. Tarintino likes Officers Kimbell and Greenly. She thanks them for taking me out, and for bringing me home. She offers them food (biscuits/cookies) and drink (hot cocoa, coffee, or tea), and they both refuse to take up the offer. I drink a small cup of cocoa in hopes that it would help my throat. Officer Kimbell's voice drops a few decibels and he discusses something with her in low tones that I can't, and don't bother, to make out. She looks over at me - the object of attention, and the obvious conversation piece - and gives a sad, little smile.  
  
"You look exhausted," she proclaims. Then, she comes to me in a few, big strides. She takes the cup from my hands and sets it on the table. "Come now," she ushers me out of her place and up the stairs, "You really need to get to bed."  
  
I don't argue. I don't have the strength to. It takes everything I got just to climb the stairs and they're not even that steep. My head is swimming by the time we reach the fourth floor. I don't even recall what happens between then and my floor, but suddenly I realize that I'm being eased down. Mrs. Tarintino tucks me in, and my eyes instantly shut.  
  
---  
  
When the morning comes, I'm still asleep. I sleep in until the early afternoon. Mrs. Tarintino wakes me by giving me breakfast in bed. She greets me by saying, "Did you sleep well, dear? I made you your favorite: blueberry pancakes with butter, and maple syrup." I still have no idea how she figured out that was my favorite. I never told her, and she still figured it out. It must be the fabled "women's intuition" I've heard of.  
  
I carefully sit up and give a grunt as a response.  
  
"Come on, now," she goes on, "I _know_ your appetite, Mr. Vegeta. Eat up."  
  
She does know. She's seen me when I'm "hungry". And, even though she doesn't announce her plans, I know that she intends to stay until I finish my meal. I do not have the resolve to be stubborn, so I merely pick up the fork and begin to eat.  
  
It's delicious. I only come to realize how famished I was when I start to eat. It doesn't take long before the plates are empty and I'm ready for more. Mrs. Tarintino collects the dishes and picks up the tray. She pauses on the way out to tell me, "Get dressed and come on downstairs for another helping. Bring your dirty laundry with you, will you? That's a lad."  
  
I take my time, but eventually follow her instructions.  
  
"Your breakfast is probably cold by now," she tells me when I come into the kitchen. She doesn't say it accusingly, and she doesn't say it like she's scolding me. It's not like she's disappointed; she just wants me to know.  
  
It tastes just as good, even though it's at room temperature.  
  
I realize that she's staring at me. I look up with one eyebrow raised. She has this warm, content expression on her face, as if watching me eat gives her a good deal of satisfaction. Maybe it does, but I know that's not what her smile is about. She suddenly chuckles, and gives her head a small shake, "Oh, Vegeta..." She addresses me informally, so I know she isn't going to ask me to do anything for her. She stuns me by saying, "You're such a looker."  
  
Heat creeps up my neck and floods my face. I have never taken a compliment well, especially one about my...appearance. I give a pathetic little laugh ("eh-hEh") and leave it at that.  
  
"Well," she speaks up again and changes the subject, "You're going to have a new neighbor today. Another poor suicidal soul like yourself. I think her name is Josie."  
  
Dear Kaioshin in Heaven, please do not let this train of thought continue where I think it is heading.  
  
"I think she should be here soon, in fact," says Mrs. Tarintino too casually.  
  
Derail! Change tracks! Something! Anything!  
  
There was a knock on the door, as if this had been pre-staged. "Stay right here, I bet that's her," the old lady basically commands me, "I'm sure she'd like to meet you."  
  
Forget changing tracks and grab hold of that third rail!  
  
Mrs. Tarintino opens the door and releases a giddy croon, just like the one she gave me when I was first escorted to her door step. "Hello, my dear!" she says cheerfully, "Do come in! We were just having breakfast. Please, take a seat!" She guides a young woman into the kitchen and into a chair at the table. "Josie" hesitantly accepts it, but doesn't look like the one to protest.  
  
She has dirty blond hair, very straight, tied back into a ponytail. She wears corrective lenses so she can focus on things within a short distance from her. She's pale, but not gothic white which is unattractive. Well built (not gangly) with a rather healthy look to her..she's actually kind of... comely.  
  
Mrs. Tarintino begins to create a plate for the poor girl and takes this opportunity to divert the attention towards an innocent victim: me. "Josie, this is Vegeta," she introduces us for us, "He'll be your neighbor on the floor above you. If you ever need any heavy lifting done, he's your man."  
  
Josie glances upward at me, but keeps her head bowed as she speaks softly, "Hello, Vegeta."  
  
Argh! That old woman knows how much I hate meeting new people! Quickly, I cram some food into my mouth. "Vegeta?" Mrs. Tarintino looks at me, "Won't you be polite and say hello?" She sets the plate down in front of the new girl.  
  
"Canf tawf," I say, "Mouf if full." She reaches over and smacks with her wooden spoon.  
  
"Don't talk with your mouth full, and don't eat to avoid talking to Josie."  
  
Old hag...always making me do things I hate to do. Vegeta, help me tote the laundry, will you? Vegeta, could you take out the trash? Because it's a bit heavy for me. Vegeta, come meet the new person to the building. Vegeta, stop trying to kill yourself! Vegeta, are you listening? Put the knife down, right now! Vegeta! Don't make me count to three!  
  
"Vegeta..." her voice is almost like a dark rumble crescendoing up to warn me that if I don't say something, there will be some sort of Hell to pay.  
  
"Hi, Josie," I manage to spit out. Then I give her a toothy grin as I say, "I'm an ex-homicial maniac. Or at least, we hope so." I duck to the side to miss Mrs. Tarintino's wooden spoon. I think I moved a bit too fast, as she stares at me with a very confused expression on her face, as if to say, "You moved, but I don't recall seeing you do so."  
  
"We?" Josie quietly questions from her position in the chair, "Are you a MPD?"  
  
"A what?" I ask in reply. Now I'm just about as confused as Mrs. Tarintino.  
  
"MPD. A multiple personality disorder," the young lady explains, only now daring to actually look at me for more than a second.  
  
"No," I shake my head, "Why did you think so?"  
  
"You said 'we hope so', so I thought that maybe.." her voice grows more and more faint towards the end of her sentence.  
  
"Oh. No. I meant we as in Mrs. Tarintino and I. I'd imagine that you probably hope I'm not a homicial maniac also. Sorry for the confusion, but I'm in here because I want to die," I love being blunt with the new people. It usually makes them shy away from me. Josie flinches as I proclaim my reason for having an apartment in this building, but she doesn't say anything further.  
  
"Enough!" the land lady interjects, "Vegeta, stop being so rude and help Josie up to her room when she's done with breakfast, will you? She has quite a few items to carry. Thank you." I know she phrased it and spoke it like a request, but she did not _ask_ me to help out - she made another demand.  
  
It isn't long before we're heading on up. I sling all of Josie's bags over my shoulders and trudge up the steps. Josie follows me rather reluctantly. "T-Thank you," she nearly whispers. We get to her room and she talks to me without looking at me, "I..appreciate your help. ..Thank you. Very much."  
  
"Hey," I try to grab her full attention because the floor seems to steal most of it, "It's nothing against you personally. I just..don't like meeting new people. People don't like me, so I don't like people."  
  
"I think you're nice.." she struggles to express herself.  
  
"Even though I told you I was an ex-homicial maniac?" I ask. She nods. "Good," I respond, smirking, "Because I wasn't lying. I really have killed people. Many people."  
  
"Oh.."  
  
Might as well get this over with now. I don't like it when people get attached to me. They come and go, but I don't. And they never, ever, come back.  
  
"I masturbate every time I get really depressed."  
  
She actually _looks_ at me this time. Probably due to shock.  
  
"I have good weeks and I have bad weeks. Highs and lows. I have just entered a low."  
  
"So..." her face is completely red by now, "How do I know if you're screaming because you're killing yourself or if you're screaming because of....you know.."  
  
"Because I'm jerkin' it?" I ask a bit too happily. I feel like a bastard to embarrass her like this. Well, I guess someone ought to be embarrassed here, but it sure as Hell isn't going to be me. She nods, probably not trusting herself to speak at the moment. Hmm..I have one of two choices. I could lie or tell the truth. I could tell her that there is no difference, but...  
  
"I curse up a storm when I'm about to cum," I don't. I tell her the truth.  
  
She merely nods again. Her whole body looks like it's blushing, and she seems very interested in the door frame (that is away from me in the opposite direction).  
  
"Hope I don't keep you up at night," I say offhandedly as I get back on the staircase. 


	4. Thursday

**Providence**  
_formerly known as: Untitled (6)_  
  
Hello, and welcome to Thursday. My name is Vegeta and I'm going to fucking kill myself or live trying. Today, I'm hoping to cease this heart from beating and stop these lungs from breathing. I'm going to take a bath.  
  
I fill the tub with hot water and hum a nameless tune. So strange that I can feel so content and so much like shit at the same time. The little bathroom begins to fill with steam, and I begin to strip off my clothes. For the sake of whomever finds me, I leave my boxer shorts on. I turn off the faucet and climb in. This is it: death time. I exhale and drop myself below the water - face down.  
  
Haha, any minute now, I should start to feel that aching in my lungs. It should only take a moment before I feel the pressure build, but I'll resist it. It shouldn't be long before I fall unconscious and die. Haha! Yes! Any minute now!  
  
Any minute now...  
  
Any..minute..now...  
  
Any...  
  
Minute...  
  
Fuck it all! I can't even drown myself right! I bolt up and intake air angrily. I push my hair away from my eyes and glare at myself in the mirror. Worthless piece of shit Saijin body that can endure suffocation for extended periods of time!  
  
My stomach abruptly growls. Attempting suicide apparently makes me hungry. I grab a towel and dry myself off on the way to the kitchen. Uhn...what to eat? I look inside my fridge to find bread, bread, and more bread. You can never go wrong with bread. I pull out a bag of wheat, take out two slices, and stick them in the toaster. Maybe after I eat I can try drowning myself again. Nothing more annoying than waiting out death while you're hungry.  
  
The bread takes so long to toast. Come on! I want my bath!  
  
I stare at the toaster as I feel the dawning of a horrible, terrific idea. I want to take my bath...but I don't want to wait on the toaster...  
  
Eureka! I'll simply take the toaster with me!  
  
I cackle as I unplug the toaster and run into the bathroom. You may be able to resist lack of oxygen but can you handle extreme amounts of electricity coursing through you!? Eh, body!?  
  
I plug it into the nearest socket and then sit back into the tub, as if to relax. I smell the lovely aroma of baking bread and I pick up the toaster. I chuckle to myself as I hold it up in the air like an evil genius holds up its masterpiece.  
  
I say, "Opps." Then, I drop the toaster.  
  
---  
  
Needless to say, I don't succeed in dying. What I do succeed in is shorting out all the lights. In complete darkness, I hear the toaster pop up. I take the toast and begin to eat, ignoring the tears that are already gathering in my eyes.  
  
Within a minute, I'm sobbing. "Oh god..!" I whine, "I only felt a tingling sensation!" In between my great big, heaving sobs, I try to eat. As I cry harder, I try not to spew crumbs everywhere.  
  
---  
  
Eventually, I get out of the tub. I put on a robe after I dry myself off. Then, as an after thought, I grab the toaster and put on some boots. I march downstairs. People have come out into the hallways to see what's going on. Slivers of moon light come in from windows, and flashlights seem to go back and forth in confusion. I march heavily down the steps. Josie somehow sees me and she follows me downstairs.  
  
"H-hey.." she says quietly and shyly, "Do you..know what's going on?"  
  
I sniff loud and scream out, "YES! I am contining to exist on the mortal plane and just so you know this is _not a good thing_!"  
  
"You tried to kill yourself?" she whispers. She sounds..mortified? Why should she?  
  
"HELLO!" I'm yelling so loud everyone can hear me, "I'm suicidal! What do you think that means!?" I turn to her and shake the toaster above my head, "Aren't you one of those emo kids who want to cut themselves or some shit!? Don't you get it!? Wanting to kill yourself is different than actually trying, I guess!" She says nothing, and I know I should feel like an asshole for saying that, but I don't.  
  
We make it to the first floor where Mrs. Tarintino is tying the belt on her robe. "Vegeta? Honey?" she asks me, "Are you okay?"  
  
I think I'm delerious by now, and I continue to shout, "No, I am not alright! And you wanna know why? I said _do you want to know why, Mrs. Tarintino_!?"  
  
"Yes," she replies calmly.  
  
My nose is running by now and I'm sobbing uncontrollably, "Because I just tried to fry myself in the bathtub and this stupid fucking toaster couldn't get the job done!" I throw the appliance on the floor and stomp on it until all that's left is flattened metal and little bits of debris that got scattered from my angry foot. I kick it into the doorway, which then opens to reveal a person with a flashlight.  
  
"Is there a problem here, ma'am?" the person - this man - inquires.  
  
I interject, "Mind your fucking business, old man!" I don't why I say that really. I'm older than any human I come in contact with.  
  
"I make it my business, pal," the male sounds cocky, "S.C.P.D. I'm Officer McKlain."  
  
"Vegeta, please," Mrs. Tarintino continues in that perfectly tranquil voice, "He's here to help."  
  
"No one can help me!" I yell furiously and then wipe my face off on the sleeve of my robe, "You just think I'm a fucking lunatic! You think you're helping me by dredging this shit up! My family died because of me, ok!? It's all my fault, and nothing you stupid bastards say or do is going to change that! My life is not worth living and I disgrace the memory of my wife and kids just by continually doing so! You can't kill me and I can't kill myself, so what difference does it make!?"  
  
"Calm down, buddy," the cop warns.  
  
"Vegeta, please," Mrs. Tarintino speaks softly at the same time.  
  
"Fuck this," I growl. Before McKlain realizes what happened, his gun is in my hands. He, as well as Mrs. Tarintino and Josie, beg me to put the weapon down. "You think a piece of molded metal will hurt me!? HERE! WATCH!" I scream so loud the neighboring apartment complex should hear.  
  
**Bang.** _Clink clink, tink._  
  
"It doesn't-"  
  
**Bang.** _Clink clink, tink._  
  
"fucking-"  
  
**Bang.** _Clink clink, tink._  
  
"do-"  
  
**Bang.** _Clink clink, tink._  
  
"ANYTHING!"  
  
**Bang. Bang.** _Clink clink, clink, tink, tink._ Click. Click.  
  
I throw the gun - hard - at the wall and stand around the remains of bullets. They stare and me and I wipe my face clean again, but with the other sleeve this time. I swallow audibly and then drag my feet into the kitchen where I take a seat at the table and begin to really cry. I lean over the table and heave in air and just..cry.  
  
After a moment, I feel Mrs. Tarintino's hands on my shoulders. "Shhh, Vegeta..." she rubs my back, trying to soothe me. She leans over me and starts to sing, "Duerme, niño chiquito...Duerme, mi alma..." I just keep crying. "Duérmete lucerito...De la mañana..." and she just keeps singing.  
  
I have no idea when I fell asleep. 


	5. Coupons

**Providence**  
_formerly known as: Untitled (6)_  
  
I come to and I'm back in my bed upstairs. I blink blearily and look around. To my surprise, Josie is sitting in a chair across the room. She's sleeping with a book resting on her lap. My mouth has an odd metallic flavor in it and I flex my jaw and swirl my tongue around. I get up and go into the bathroom without disturbing my guest. I run some water over my face then I look up at myself. Squinting, I reach up and touch my frazzled hair.  
  
Damn it all! I fried my hair and not my heart! How in the Hell!?  
  
Tch. Like it even matters...  
  
I reach into the drawer and pull out my electric shaver. I'm not allowed to use an item with razor blades. I pull out the kindergarten scissors that can hardly cut butter. Hopefully, they'll be able to cut damaged hair.  
  
---  
  
Josie wakes up right after I finish changing clothes. I've scrounged up a pull-over and I wear it with the hood up. She raises and eyebrow and I tell her, "Don't ask."  
  
She composes herself and puts the book down on my dresser, "Mrs. Tarintino will have some breakfast ready. And she wants your help."  
  
"My help?" I ask. It probably sounded sarcastic.  
  
"Yeah," Josie replies as she looks up at my face, "She can't get the gun out of the wall."  
  
I say nothing.  
  
"Who are you? Really?"  
  
I say nothing.  
  
"You think that if you tell me, I'll think you're crazy. Isn't that it? Well, isn't that why I'm here? Because they think I'm crazy?"  
  
I continue to say nothing.  
  
"I saw you move, in the kitchen. Or rather, should I say, I saw how you _didn't_ move."  
  
"You weren't watching."  
  
"Or was I? You seemed a little distracted with that spoon. Who are you? You move so fast I couldn't see it, you shoot yourself and it did nothing but waste bullets, and you imbedded a gun in a brick wall. It's like you're not even human."  
  
"I'm not," I snap back. She actually seems surprised; as if she suspected such a thing, but never expected me to comment on it or even be honest. I don't know what else to say, so I wait for her lead. It takes her a moment to gather herself.  
  
"Do you have...proof?"  
  
"Some. I can get more later."  
  
"So you can show me something right now?"  
  
When I first met this girl, she was nothing but a little mousy character who was shier than the most innocent, naive virgin. Now, here she was practically demanding things of me. I think I bring out the worst in people. I look at her for a few more moments. I look into her bright brown eyes and quickly drop my pants. She flushes and takes a defensive step back. I turn around and pull at the waistband of my boxers so I expose my lower back.  
  
"Here. Look," I speak calmly. I glance over my shoulder as I speak to her unmoving form, "Come on. I'm not going to flash you. Just come look here - at my lower back." I hear her footsteps approach slowly, hesitantly. I look back at her again and note her confused expression, "See that? You don't get that on a human. It's called a tail spot. It's all that remains of my tail." She stares, fascinated. Eventually, I get bored and look around my apartment aimlessly.  
  
Shock. Pain?  
  
My knees buckle and I fall to the floor in an instant. "I'm so sorry!" Josie cries out, horrified that she could've hurt me.  
  
"I..I'm fine," I gasp for air, "It's my fault..I should've told you not..not to touch. I'm not used to it..." A tingling sensation lingers from where she touched me. Sure I brush it all the time (like when I change clothes), but it's different when someone else does it. Kind of like how you readjust yourself, but it's completely different when someone else touches your goods. I finally get back upon my feet, and head towards the door.  
  
"Where are you going?" she asks, obviously worried.  
  
"Just down to the pharmacy," I reply. She's right on my heels with that comment.  
  
"I'll go with you!" Josie invites herself along, "I mean..I have to go anyways.." She's fumbling with her excuse for only a second, "My medication should be in by now. We can go pick it up." Alright, I'll let her come along. Mrs. Tarintino probably wouldn't let me go by myself anyways. Not after what happened last time, and definitely not after what happened last night.  
  
We enter the front entryway and Josie goes to pick up her slip, or voucher, or whatever it is from Mrs. Tarintino. I take the time to remove the gun I had embedded in the wall and examine it. I pull it out with ease. I suppose the cop would like it back, even though it's useless.  
  
The two women come out of Mrs. Tarintino's place all smiles. I hand the mishapen weapon to the elder of the pair. Her smile fades slightly, but she does say, "Thank you, Mr. Vegeta." Mister. Hmm... It's funny how much you can read from just hearing someone say your name.  
  
"You're welcome," I politely respond.  
  
"Don't be gone too long," she says, lighting touching my arm, "You'll miss lunch." She leaves it at that. Being nice, I hold the door open for Josie. Suddenly, Mrs. Tarintino's voice calls out, "Don't forget your condoms!" Old hag! I knew I was getting off too easy!  
  
"What'd she say?" Josie asks me, looking especially curious when she sees my red face.  
  
"Don't forget to call home," I quickly lie, "You know, if we're going to be late." Wow, even I'm impressed with me on that one.  
  
"Oh..Okay.." and she drops the subject.  
  
---  
  
Josie goes to the back of the store to get her sertaline hydrochloride while I browse the aisles. I grab what I came here for and I get a Snickers® while I'm at it. I have to wait in line because the lady in front of me seems to be having some sort of issue.  
  
"What do you mean these coupons are only valid on a certain day!?" the old lady wails.  
  
"The advertisment in the paper said that they were only good on the nineth and today is the tenth," the employee desperatly tries to explain.  
  
"Well, it's only one day off!" the old croon huffs, "Can't you just use them?"  
  
Why is she making a fuss over forty-two cents?  
  
"No ma'am," the poor kid at the register replies, "It was only good for one day and that day was yesterday."  
  
"This is an outrage!" the mass of wrinkles in front of me shouts, "I demand to see your manager!" The boy picks up a nearby phone and calls his manager to the front of the store. Josie comes up next to me and looks at what I'm buying.  
  
"What's with the hat?" she asks innocently.  
  
Damn. I had hoped that I could get it on before she'd ask that question. With a sigh, I pull back my hood to reveal my badly shaven head.  
  
She gasps. "Your hair!" she exclaims, "What..? Why did you cut it?"  
  
"Remember how I tried to kill myself by electrocuting myself in the bathtub last night?" I proclaim loud enough for people in a five foot radius to hear. I turn and look at the back of the old lady's head. She's much older than Mrs. Tarintino, but I bet she's still younger than me. How sad. "Well I _electrocuted my hair_," my voice grows louder, till the point of being obnoxious, "_I had to shave EVERYTHING off._" The bitch in front of me is either ignoring me, deaf, or just completely oblivious and wrapped up in her own little world. I think I can guess which one it most likely is.  
  
I just want to buy a hat and a candy bar.  
  
"EXCUSE ME," I say loud enough that people in the back of the store should hear me fine.  
  
The lady points to herself, "Who, me?"  
  
"YES, YOU," I confirm.  
  
"What?" she sneers.  
  
"THOSE COUPONS ARE WORTHLESS," I'm not really yelling, just talking really, really loud, "JUST LIKE ME."  
  
Josie tries to interject, but I continue. It's odd..my source of pain is going to give me a source of pleasure just by admitting to it.  
  
"Pardon?" the old hag is taken aback.  
  
"I HATE MYSELF AND WANT TO DIE," I go on and try to display the smallest amount of emotion I can muster, "THE ONLY WAY I CAN WARD OFF THE COMPULSION TO COMMIT SUICIDE IS BY THE ACT OF MASTURBATION." I don't really give anyone the time to comment, but their expressions are priceless. "DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MANY TIMES YOU MUST HAVE AN ORGASM BEFORE YOU CAN RESIST THE URGE TO KILL YOURSELF?" I start to cry, but this time it is fake. "OH GOD! THE _COUPONS_!" Without warning, I undo my fly and drop my pants.  
  
That did it. The old lady leaves in a flash and her coupons sit at the register forgotten. I smile in satisfaction, pull my pants back up, and calmly place my items down on the counter. "Just these two, please," I say in a calm tone of voice. The kid stares at me in a mixture of shock, awe, and..yes..respect. The manager finally arrives on the scene.  
  
"Is there something wrong?"  
  
"No; everything's cool as a cucumber," I smile and nod politely, "Just a misunderstanding. It's okay now." The kid - "Jordan" according to his name badge - starts ringing me up. The manager walks away and I chuckle. Josie starts to laugh too, and then Jordan.  
  
"That was so mean!" Josie says between gasps for air, "You're such an asshole!"  
  
"Hahaha," I agree, "Yeah, but it wasn't like I lied or anything." I turn to Jordan, "Is it okay if I wear the hat out?"  
  
"Oh, yes!" he replies with enthusiasm. He doesn't look so burnt out now. I might've made his day. What an oddly satisfying feeling I experience from thinking that. "By all means; please, do!" he says, handing me the hat minus the price tag (he took it off for me). I put it on and pay for my items.  
  
"Have a great day!" Jordan shouts to us as we leave.  
  
Great? No. I don't think I can manage great, but I'll try. I always try.  
  
---  
  
It feels awkward to wear a hat. Just as awkward, if not more, than having my hair cut. I _liked_ my hair. With the small, various changes I've performed to my apperance over the years, I've come to enjoy my stationary style the best. However, as far as I can remember, I have never worn a hat. I never needed to block the sun from my eyes or wear one to keep me warm. Funny now that I wear one simply because I'm self-conscious.  
  
Well, who doesn't like to look good? I guess I fussed over it more than I should've. I guess I still do. I don't worry though. I know I look good. I know I look unique.  
  
It gives me an idea.  
  
"Hey, let's stop at the library," I casually suggest to Josie.  
  
"Hm? Oh, ok," she replies.  
  
---  
  
**A/N:** Here's some answers/comments to some reviews I've gotten.  
  
_Satan's Widdle Hellper_ asks, "Is there a POINT to this fic?" And, "Is he going to start killing people anytime soon?"  
  
The answer to the first question is, yes. I don't know how to wrap up everything into a nice, neat little package. It's a story about faith, tragedy, and the spectrum of emotion. I could probably ramble on about what the point of the fic is, but I think it's better to see what you think of it.  
  
The answer to the second question is no. And furthermore, why would he go around killing people when he wants to get into Heaven? However, this subject is brought up later in the fic.  
  
_Lexicon Devil_ said, "Tari/antino's a fitting way to name your original character, it's quite a bit like his movies."  
  
I never actually thought of Quentin Tarantino when I named her. (Though I do like his stuff.) I based her off of the hispanic lady who took in Matt 'Guitar' Murphy in the movie "The Blues Brothers". She's the lady Elwood mistakenly calls "Mrs. Toronto". That always gets a laugh out of me, though I have no idea why. 


	6. Beatrix

**Providence**  
_formerly known as: Untitled (6)_  
  
When we're inside, she goes to look for a book she's heard about while I go to find an employee. I find one putting some books up from a cart.  
  
"Pardon me, but-" I start, then stop once she looks at me. My mouth stays agape in shock and I flounder about, trying to speak, trying to breathe, but I can't seem to pull it together. I glance at her name badge. "Beatrix". Beatrix has shoulder length medium brown hair with a red tint. She also has these piercing blue eyes with a soft edge. She's slim and _slightly_ muscular, as if she works out. She is beautiful. She...  
  
She raises an eyebrow, "Can I help you?"  
  
I force myself to swallow, inhale, then talk (in that order), "Yes. I'd like some..assistance looking through the old newspaper articles." I'm surprised that I could actually make a coherant sentence.  
  
"The machine is really simple to use," she tells me while leading me towards the back of the library. She walks with confidence, using large strides. She looks so happy to be helping someone. I feel a familiar tightening in my throat, and shamefully the same twinge goes through my groin. By the time we enter the room with the machine, my legs are shaking and my eyes are burning.  
  
"You use the browser to choose which date and newspaper you'd like to see, then you can choose it down to the section, the page number..everything," she explains, taking a seat at the computer, "So let's say I want to see what happened in sports on July first of last year in West City. I just type it in.. and press enter and... there you go!" The screen comes up, but it becomes blurred as I battle this internal struggle.  
  
"If you need anything else, don't hesitate t-" she lets her sentence die when she looks back at me.  
  
"S-Sorry.." I choke out, covering my face for her sake.  
  
"Are you alright?" Beatrix inquires, looking genuinely concerned.  
  
I decide to tell her the truth. "You just..You look like my late wife," I explain, trying to smile for her benefit.  
  
"Oh.." she seems taken aback.  
  
"It's alright," I assure her, "It's..not your fault. Please, I do need your help though. I was looking for an event, but I can't remember what year it was."  
  
"Ok," she says, trying to compose herself as if it would do the same for me, "Could you tell me what event it was?"  
  
"The Capsule Corporation merger."  
  
"That was a while ago," Beatrix comments while typing in some information, "A _long_ while ago." She decides to recite what she's doing, I suppose to distract me, or she's trying to make the situation less uncomfortable, "Here you can search the article titles by entering in key words. I'm going to put in 'Capsule' and 'merger' and choose between sixty and forty years ago, because I can't remember what year that happened in exactly. And... Here's our search results. This one looks promising." She opens it up, and it does look promising. "Anything else I can help you with?" she wants to know.  
  
I shake my head and she gets up. She smiles warmly, as if she's trying to cheer me up. "Just ask for me if you need me?" she offers. When Beatrix is gone, I feel both happy and sad. So strange how often I feel both at once.  
  
To distract myself, I browse the papers for awhile, looking for something in specific. I find it, and then I wait for Josie to find me. Eventually, I give up on the waiting game and seek her down. She was waiting in the lobby for me to come out. Go figure. "Hey," I grab her attention, "Come see this." Josie follows me to the back and looks at me quizzically.  
  
"What's this?" she glances at the picture but then looks back at me.  
  
"This is a photo from the Capsule Corporation merger. It was taken fifty-seven years ago," I inform her. She looks at it again before returning to me once more. She's looking in the wrong spot for answers.  
  
"Okay?" she questions. She has no idea why she's looking at this photo. I sigh and smirk.  
  
"Who's standing next to Bulma Briefs?" I ask of her.  
  
When she looks up at the picture - actually _looks_ at it - she jumps to her feet. It's amusing what you don't see when you let your mind be ruled by logic. Logic says I couldn't look the same then as I do now. No way. It simply isn't possible. No matter how much plastic surgery you do, you still won't look the same. Yet, here comes that inkling of a doubt. Could it be, really? Could this be the same man? The photo is so clear. The hair, the eyes, the face..everything is the same. How come he doesn't look any older? Is this truly the same man?  
  
I toss a small photograph on the table in front of her. She picks it up.  
  
"Josie, meet my wife and kids," I speak quietly.  
  
"You'd have to be...that'd make you...you're..you're..." she stumbles for words. Her mind is telling her two conflicting stories. A two-sided logic. One part says that no one can live that long without becoming a mass of wrinkles and false teeth. Another part says that that's true if you're a human. It's almost amusing. I spare her and finish her train of thought.  
  
"I'm quite old. Yes."  
  
She says nothing. 


	7. Forty Car Pile Up

**Providence**  
_formerly known as: Untitled (6)_  
  
Several days pass, and I can't help but notice that I've been feeling better. It's as if I was unconsciously growing weary of being depressed, and I've somehow forced myself into some sort medium. Josie is a pretty fine companion, and she keeps me mildly distracted from my day to day pain. I could never be attracted, nor interested in her the way Mrs. Tarintino wishes me to be, but on occasion I let the old lady dream on. I feel as if I'm in her debt.  
  
Josie no longer doubts my non-Earthly origins. I happened by her two days after we went to the pharmacy, and she stared at the several inches of hair that adorned my head. I merely smiled at her.  
  
My mood-swings and compulsions are temporarily on hiatus it seems. I masturbate less frequently now - only in response to the normal calls of nature. Somehow, the guilt that has been eating me like a cancer has granted me respite. I keep myself busy in hopes that it will extend this high period, and perhaps it will keep my next low from going..very low.  
  
---  
  
Mrs. Tarintino greets me with two plates of french toast as I enter the kitchen. "Good morning, Mr. Vegeta," she quips in a cheerful voice. She continues setting the table as I begin to eat. She goes to her cupboards for a moment, and returns with powerded sugar. She sprinkles some onto my toast and returns the sugar without a word. The woman never ceases to amaze me. How does she know that that is exactly how I like it? She even put boysenberry syrup on it with rasberries on top!  
  
"You know.." she begins, then waits till she starts a batch of pancakes to continue, "..there's an art exhibition in town. Maybe you should go see that with Josie." Josie this, Josie that. By the way she talks, Mrs. Tarintino should date her!  
  
"Yeah. Ok," I give a shrug. I'm not a huge art fan. My tastes are often viewed as odd or bizarre. Sometimes people have ridiculed me and have said I have no taste at all. What else do you expect from a Saijin though, really? A work of art to me is like the mastery of the Big Bang Attack, or Kakkarot's Kamehameha Wave. Oh well. Going to this exhibit will be something to do, at least. I have no other plans.  
  
---  
  
"An art exhibition, huh?" Josie says out loud more to herself than to me. She brushes her hair quickly, but methodically. "Sure, I'll go with you. It sounds like fun," she flashes me a smile before she continues primping herself, "but why don't you drive? I'm not in the mood."  
  
"I can't."  
  
"What? Why not?" she asks, surprised and confused.  
  
I stare at her for a moment.  
  
---  
  
_"We are gathered here today to remember those who have fallen in the midst of tragedy - being taken from loved ones in too soon of a time."  
  
He listened behind dark-tinted glasses.  
  
"We wish to pay our regards to these bright souls, and commemorate them for the dedicated lives that they lived."  
  
He listened in his black suit and shiny black dress shoes.  
  
"Chi-chi Son. Mother of Gohan Son and Goten Son. Loving wife to Goku Son. She cared deeply for her family, and only wanted the best for them, and for others."  
  
He released a sigh, inaudible, but draining - taxing - upon his energy.  
  
"Gohan Son. Eldest son of Goku and Chi-chi Son. Father of Pan Son. Loving husband to Videl Satan. He was the best scholar this world has known, and will be deeply missed by family, friends, and collegues alike."  
  
He looked at the ground now, unable to direct his gaze at the speaker.  
  
"Videl Satan. Only daughter of Hercule Satan. Mother of Pan Son. Loving wife to Gohan Son. She took after her father and cared for the people of Earth. She will be missed by all."  
  
He heard the great wail of an old man.  
  
"Pan Son. Daughter of Gohan Son and Videl Satan. She was taken away from us at too young of an age."  
  
It was the sound of a man who had lost all he held dear in the world.  
  
"Goten Son. Youngest son of Goku and Chi-chi Son. Best friends with Trunks Briefs, he loved him like a brother. Goten was an aspiring athlete, and was well-liked by all."  
  
He closed his eyes. He tried to prepare himself, but he couldn't. More people had begun to cry.  
  
"Bulma Briefs. Daughter of Malcom and Bunny Briefs. Mother of Trunks Vegeta Briefs and Bra Vegeta Briefs. Loving wife to Vegeta. She was a wonderful parent, a loyal, loving spouse, and the most successful scientist and businesswoman that has walked this Earth. She will be greatly missed by many."  
  
He tried so hard to stay in control. His will was crumbling.  
  
"Trunks Vegeta Briefs. Son of Vegeta and Bulma Briefs. He followed in his mother's footsteps at becoming a very self-proficient president. He was admired by many, and deeply loved by those he was close to. Best friends with Goten Son, he loved him like a brother."  
  
His eyes burned and his throat had seized up.  
  
"Bra Vegeta Briefs. Daughter of Vegeta and Bulma Briefs. She lived a carefree life and was well-liked by all. Her only wish in life was to help people."  
  
The ceremony went on, but he turned away. He walked on trecherous, shaky knees away from the speaker. He finally allowed himself to breathe again. God..it was so hard. Why was this so hard? It wasn't as if death was new to him.  
  
No..death was not.  
  
Love was.  
  
He had loved them - all of them - on some level. Gohan and Goten were almost like sons to him, especially Goten. Even Chi-chi he felt something for. Respect, mostly, but it was more than he would have ever imagined in the past.  
  
These emotions were eating him alive. If love could do this, no wonder he had scorned it so much.  
  
Yet, it wasn't a weakness. No. Love was the more powerful thing he'd ever encountered. No wonder Kakkarot perserved through his battles. Fighting for love was more motivating than fighting for any other cause - be it wealth, property, or glory.  
  
He took the time to compose himself. What little he could.  
  
He returned when there was near-silence. The sound of soft sobbing penetrated the air every now and again. People were, as they called it, "paying their respects". He waited patiently, hoping that by biding his time it would give him the strength to face this. He walked forward, the last in line, and stood in front of the caskets. No...he could not... He was weak.  
  
He lost the energy and will to stand upright, and he collapsed onto bended knees. He cried in front of everyone. He let everyone know of his sorrow, and he didn't care. Tears flowed freely down his face as he tried to hide behind those dark-tinted glasses. Someone was beside him then. Someone put their arm around him and held him.  
  
"Oh, Vegeta.." that light, feminine voice said, "Honey...shh.." Hands caressed his face, wiping away tears and trying to comfort him. They ran through his hair and rubbed his back. He could only continue to cry as he was completely lost, completely devestated. Bulma's mother held him close, letting his head rest on her shoulder. His arms encircled her and he returned the embrace.  
  
"It's my fault.." he said, his voice a hoarse whisper.  
  
"Shh..." Bunny hugged him tight, "Don't say that, Vegeta... Don't say that; it isn't true..."  
  
---  
  
"Are you sure you wouldn't like to ride with us?" Dr. Briefs extended his invitation for the third time.  
  
Vegeta shook his head, "No, thanks. I think I..just need a few minutes. ..Alone." His father-in-law and mother-in-law respected his wishes, said their goodbyes, and made their departure. He stayed for only a little while, then he took the long walk round to his vehicle.  
  
He moved mechanically: open the door, climb in, close door, put it in neutral, start car, fasten seatbelt, push in the clutch, apply brake, release the emergency brake, put it in reverse, release brake, release clutch and apply gas, back out, clutch in while applying brake, put it in first, release clutch and apply gas, go.  
  
He drove a few miles in back roads, then he merged onto the highway.  
  
_"It's my fault..."  
  
"Don't say that; it isn't true..."_  
  
How could it not be? Vegeta - the Prince of Saijins - had fucked up bad. He made a poor decision and for it everyone else had to pay for it. He had been selfish and now everyone he had cared for was dead. Did Bulma, Trunks, and Bra deserve this for his misjudgment? No. He did; yet, he was still here. Their places should've been swapped.  
  
It was his fault.  
  
_"Don't say that, Vegeta..."_  
  
How could he not? It _was_ true. It was his fault.  
  
All his fault.  
  
That's when he'd first felt it. This horrible, wretched feeling that came over him from just being.  
  
Useless! Selfish! Piece of shit! You disgrace your family! he told himself. How can you even attend their funeral, as if you belonged there? You shamed their name! You caused their deaths! You deserve no pity! Worthless!  
  
He choked out a sob and gripped the wheel so hard it caused an imprint. He felt sick to his stomach, and his chest ached.  
  
This pain.. Did love cause this pain?  
  
He glared at the road ahead of him, taking the appropriate exit ramp. He wondered why he was driving back to Capsule Corporation in the first place. How dare he go back to the place he'd been welcomed into! How dare he go back now that he betrayed that trust! No. He could not. He would not return.  
  
Bulma, Trunks, Bra...he loved them beyond words. He had never expressed that love before. Now, he couldn't even rectify that mistake.  
  
Failure! he thought, You caused this! If you would've stopped thinking of only yourself for just a moment! Maybe if you had realized what a stupid hunk of shit you are it wouldn't have happened!  
  
Tears were running down his face by now. He'd never felt so ashamed in his entire life. His nose began to run and his chest was heaving.  
  
And then, just like that, he broke _completely_.  
  
He screamed out, possibly a curse word, but he'd fail to remember in the future. He forced the gas pedal to the floor and rear-ended the car in front of him. They turned, hit the side-barricade and lost control. The vehicle was 'pulled' sharply to the left and Vegeta hit the rear at just the perfect angle that he was forced upwards. Cars were spinning out of control. The person behind him in turn rear-ended him and he was pushed forward. He'd remember the odd silence that took place after the concophony of grinding metal the most. For just one moment, it was calm and peaceful. For one solitary moment, he'd felt content. Then, it was over.  
  
---  
  
The driver of a Pontiac Aztec was cruising happily along the highway when a car dropped onto the Ford Focus in front of him. By then, it was too late, and the Aztec joined the fray.  
  
---  
  
It took the rescue workers some time to get there because the wreckage had leaked over onto the oncoming traffic and had caused the entire highway to back up for both the East and West bound sides. Not to mention the lovely jam on the bridge above. Late afternoon was slowly transforming into early evening as police officers, firemen, and medical personal worked to free people imprisoned in their own vehicles and under hundreds of pounds of metal and glass.  
  
Henry Gerald was one of those assigned to help in this mess. He carefully climbed over various cars, trucks, and SUVs in varying states of damage. He was looking for more survivors, which thankfully, there had been a very high percentage of. His ears caught a muffled sound that he recognized as crying. "I've found another live one," he called through his radio, "West bound. Looks like it used to be a dark blue Benz. Requesting assistance." He eased himself onto a patch of bare concrete next to the car sandwich. An arm was sticking out of what was left of the window - clad in a black suit jacket - and he knelt down to peek inside.  
  
Glossy black eyes stared out at him from the shadowy interior. Even if you have a rollbar, the roof wouldn't withstand a sixty foot drop on its roof, Henry thought to himself, it's a miracle this man's even breathing. He wondered how much longer he would last. He had to be alive due to the combination of luck and the fact the guy was one tough son-of-a-bitch. The least he could do was comfort the guy who was obviously in pain. "My name's Henry. What's your name?" he asked the driver. The man continued to stare back at him as he cried harder. He attempted to calm the stranger a few times after that, but he gave up eventually and waited for his help to arrive.  
  
---  
  
They cut out an entire section of the car just to free him. Henry teamed up with his peers to very gently pull him out of the twisted concoction and they were shocked at what they found. This man adorned no bruise, no scratch, no injury whatsoever. The only words he spoke to them were harsh and pained:  
  
"I didn't die."_  
  
---  
  
I finally answer Josie's question, "Because the last time I drove I caused a forty car pile-up. Nine people died and countless others were injured."  
  
She stares at me, not knowing what to say. "I, uh.." she starts weakly. She puts her hair brush down and attempts to gather her senses. "I'll just pull the car up to the front, okay?" she tries to smile at me as she grabs her purse and heads downstairs.  
  
I wait a little while, then I go down to meet up with her. 


	8. The Big Question

**Providence**  
_formerly known as: Untitled (6)_  
  
We sit on a bench overlooking some famous painting whose artist's name, as well as the title of the piece, escapes me. I casually chew on the spice drops I bought on our way here. We sit in companionable silence. I pay more mind to the people walking by than I do to the painting. I wonder what they're thinking right now. Art is simply a concept I won't understand, at least, not in the way humans do. I could always devulge myself and read their minds, but it's not exactly the easiest of procedures, and I personally don't like to invade people's privacy for my own amusement. I finish off the small bag of candy, crumple it up, and put it in my pocket for proper disposal later. I then turn and look at Josie.  
  
Since she's come to reside at Mrs. Tarintino's, her complexion has actually darkened. She looks more healthy than she did - probably due to her new eating habits, and to the fact that she usually follows me around outside on walks. Her attitude has brightened and she's become more bold and outgoing. She seems completely normal now, so it confuses me as to _why_ she's so depressed. They say curiosity killed the cat, so I suppose it's a good thing that I'm not a cat.  
  
"Josie, why do you want to die?"  
  
She looks into my eyes - searching them for the reason behind my impromptu questioning. Her expression is one of apprehension, and maybe a twinge of fear. She takes a deep breath then shifts her weight onto her arms as she leans back. Her stare is intent on the picture before us, and she does not look away when she speaks.  
  
"When you talk.. you tell exactly what's on your mind. You don't care what other people think of you, and you are never bothered with the consequences and reprecussions. You expose yourself without hesitation, and when you speak.. it's like it's nothing at all to release intimate details. I guess what I'm trying to say is that you're a lot stronger in some areas than I am."  
  
I'm not exactly sure where she's going with this, so I decide to take it easy. I nod just a bit and reply, "Okay.."  
  
"It's difficult for me to express myself," she adds after another moment. After taking a deep breath, she looks back at me again with those same searching eyes. I try to give her the most attentive, neutral look I can muster. I even refrain from scrunching my eyebrows like they're normally inclined to do. Oddly enough, she smiles.  
  
"But that's what inspires me.." she speaks softly, "When I see that you can do it, I think that - maybe - I can do it too." I can see the tears gather in her eyes. She's trembling, and I reluctantly reach out. I'm not good at this sort of thing. I never seemed to be able to relate to other people and get close enough to them to make them relax. I'm just not good at this comfort thing.. but I try. I place my hand on her shoulder lightly, carefully. She could brush it away with ease if she wished, but she doesn't.  
  
"When I was a kid, my dad raped me," she blurts out. When her eyes meet mine again, I can see the hope in her eyes.  
  
_Please, don't think any less of me..._  
  
"Why would I think any less of you?" I respond with confusion and contained anger at her father.  
  
"Vegeta.." she stares at me with her eyes wide, "I didn't say anything..."  
  
Am I going crazy? I didn't just fabricate this, did I? I don't need to hallucinate while I'm depressed; I have enough problems as it is. "He didn't rape you?" I ask, so very confused. I remove my hand from her, fearing I've intruded. I place it on the bench.  
  
"No!" Josie becomes flustered and her emotions nearly go out of control, "I didn't say for you to not think less of me! I thought it!"  
  
Great. Her thoughts were so powerful they projected right onto my psyche without me realizing it wasn't vocal speech. "Oh," I reply. It seems like the only thing I can manage to say without causing her more discomfort. I shouldn't have asked and made her upset like this. It was uncalled for.  
  
It makes me wonder. How can a father do that to their child? It fills me with disgust just thinking about it. Simply imagining the abuse causes bile to rise in the back of my throat. I think I understand now though. Poor little Josie... never moving forward because he trapped her in the past with that pain. He's made her feel worthless, like no one would want or like her for who she is. He's made her think that it was her fault and not his.  
  
I can sense myself shaking from rage. Selfish bastard. I know who he reminds me of. I know who Josie reminds me of too.  
  
"Vegeta..?" Josie's soft, feminine voice drags me from my thoughts.  
  
"Hm?" I look at her, trying to appear open and receptive. Her eyes glance downward, then back up to my face. I follow the direction of the glance and slowly extract my fingers out of the concrete bench. She reaches out and takes my hand in hers. Her digits at thin and fine, her nails natural, but trimmed perfectly. She's been taking such good care of herself recently. Josie examines my hand with great interest.  
  
"It's like.. you're some sort of Superman," she murmurs quietly in awe.  
  
I can't help it. I reply, "Super Saijin, actually." It's such a horribly lame pun that it amuses me. It's as if being unfunny makes it humorous. However, Josie's ignorance sort of spoils the effect.  
  
"Saijin?" she inquires, looking positively puzzled by the word. She releases my hand as well.  
  
"I'll.. show you later," I refrain from explaining. It's the best offer I can give her at the moment, as I don't wish to transform in the middle of an art gallery. Besides, it'd probably be best if I did some warm-ups before hand. It's been awhile since I've ascended. I haven't ever since.. that day, in fact. I quickly divert my thoughts to something else, "In the mean time, what do you want to do?"  
  
"Huh? I dunno..." she responds flippantly, as if I was talking about which movie we'd want to rent or something as equally inane.  
  
"I meant about your father. What do you want to do?" I elaborate. Josie stares at me so I can see all the pain inside of her. I wish it wasn't so easy for humans to bare their emotions at times. She's not ready to be on her own yet. She needs someone to look up to and someone to take care of her. Deep down, she probably needs someone to be the father she never had - the kind that helps you ride your first bike without training wheels and takes you to work with them just so you can have a day off of school. She needs someone who can protect her. She needs me.  
  
I wasn't the kind of father kids would brag about to their friends. I never expressed any interest in education or extra-curricular activities. However, I loved my children. If they needed me, they had only needed to ask. I would have done anything for them. Right now, I'm thinking I could do anything for Josie. No one should endure what she's been put through. I'd do anything to make her feel like a person again. Yeah, I'd even kill again if it came to that.  
  
"What can I do?" she eventually brings herself to say. She sounds defeated already.  
  
"For starters, you can stop blaming yourself," I say with an edge of hostility, but it isn't aimed towards her, "Josie, whatever he did to you was because he was selfish and unloving. Did he ever try to apologize for what he's done?"  
  
"No.." she speaks so softly now - it's like when we first met. Fragile. That's it. She seems fragile, as if these words could break her, "..He just pretended it never happened."  
  
"And how do you feel about that?" I ask. Geez, I sound like one of those doctors I've had to visit. Of course, I'm going to be a lot more blunt than they are, and I'm definitely not a professional in this area.  
  
"Hurt..?" she says as an inquiry - as if she's hoping this is the right answer.  
  
I nod and praise her, "Hurt. Good. I'd feel hurt too. Except, I have a tendency to get angry. So what would help it hurt less?"  
  
"I don't know!" she raises her voice in her frustration. Hmm.. it appears that I'm not the only one who'd get angry. "You act like this is just some problem you can solve! Well, you can't! You can't give me my innocence back!" she starts to yell, clearly losing control of her emotions.  
  
"You think I don't know that?" I calmly respond, "Josie, remember when we first met and I told you I was an ex-homicidal maniac?" I wait for her to nod. Then, I continue, "I wasn't lying then, and I'm not lying now. You _know_ I'm not human. You know I've come from somewhere.. elsewhere in the universe. What you don't know is that by the age of five I was a trained killer. Don't believe me? Remember how I shot myself, Josie? Remember how it didn't do a damn thing? Remember, just now, how I sunk my fingers into a slab of concrete without even noticing? I know what it's like to not be innocent. It's a horrible feeling that can eat you up. But, you're wrong. This is a problem, and it can be solved. Not by me, but you. I'm just here as back-up. When you decide you want to begin feeling better about yourself, that's when we can actually get started."  
  
After a few, tense seconds, she shoots back, "What do you want me to say?"  
  
"What do I want you to say? _I_ don't want you to say anything unless it's something _you_ want to say," I reply.  
  
"So, what now?" she says bitterly. She must be really pissed at me right now.  
  
"Now? Well, are you ready to quit moping around and move on with your life?"  
  
"Yes!"  
  
"Good. Then, you decide what you want to do about your dad."  
  
She screams suddenly, "I WANT HIM FUCKING DEAD!"  
  
Whoa! Lots of anger inside of her! She's so self-conscious she must never let it out. Anger like that is dangerous, and it doesn't suit her at all. Anger like that could actually fuel her into killing her dad, and she doesn't need to go to prison.  
  
"Josie, there'll be no killing going on," I sternly hiss, ignoring all onlookers, "If you do that, you'll only succeed in getting yourself thrown into a shit-hole of a correctional facility. Besides, he probably would have no idea why you're killing him anyways. I know how whack-jobs like him think. I was.. raised by one. We're going to have to hit him where it hurts, then you make him remember what he's done, then you make him regret it. And if the fucking pig doesn't apologize, I'll make him apologize. And if he doesn't mean it.. then, I'll kill him. If you want. But not you, Josie. You can watch, but you can't do it."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Because you haven't killed anyone before, and I think you'll find out that once you do, it isn't so great."  
  
No matter how angry you are or how much they deserve it, I add to myself silently.  
  
---  
  
**A/N:** Here's an answer to a review I've received:  
  
_Renzuite_ asks, "So Videl kept her name Satan?"  
  
Yes. I think Videl would keep her last name in marriage because it has a greater impact than "Son". Everyone already knows her as Videl Satan. I think that name is important to her, and I think she would keep it. 


	9. The Widower of Bulma Briefs

**Providence**  
_formerly known as: Untitled (6)_  
  
A week later, Josie knocks on my door with the worst of timing. With a sigh, I stand and pull my pants up. "Hold on a sec!" I shout out as I adjust myself, zip my fly, and button my pants. I make my way over to the door, open it, and then retreat to the kitchen sink. Josie hesitantly allows herself in, shutting the door behind her. "What's on your mind?" I inquire as I lather soap over my hands.  
  
"I uh..I had a plan.." she says with uncertainty before asking what's on her mind, "I wasn't interrupting anything was I?"  
  
I look over at her and can't resist the smirk that tugs at my lips. I can feel a bead of sweat roll halfway down the side of my flushed face as well as a (now) half of an erection chaffing me. "Nothing important," I counter as I rinse my hands off and search for a dish towel, "What's your plan?"  
  
"My well-to-do family - read: my mother and father - expect me to settle down as soon as I get over my.. little stress spell."  
  
"MmHmm," I make a noise to indicate I'm listening as I look through a drawer for a piece of cloth. I finally find one and dry off my hands.  
  
"They live out in the country, so here's the plan I came up with.. We travel out there with the facade to reveal some wonderful news."  
  
I take up my previous seat and prop my legs up on the table, "And what would that be?"  
  
"Our engagement," she answers with a completely serious face. Even her voice lacks any flare of humor.  
  
"You're not joking," I state. Well.. anything to help Josie out. "Ok," I relent so quickly it probably surprises her, "I'll do it. If that's what it takes. What else do you got in mind?"  
  
"I'm.. not sure yet," she admits. She's new to this. However, this game is an old favorite of mine. What's that line I've heard once? To create a plan so cunning you could slap a tail on it and call it a weasel?  
  
"What's more cunning than a weasel?" I think aloud.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Oh, nothing.."  
  
---  
  
We plot. We scheme. We prepare.  
  
Everyone in the building seems to know that trouble is brewing. Daily, Josie and I are seen together huddling to whisper conspiratory ideas. We're both acting different, and it's almost kind of scary. For the first time since.. that day, I've lost the will to commit suicide. I must live now, for Josie's sake. She has given me a purpose, and so the least I can do is help give her happiness.  
  
My moods swing, but for the most part I'm pretty content. Keeping myself busy helps with this. I sort of hop down the staircase this fine Wednesday morning. I say sort of because I don't define hopping as a course of action I willingly take. People look at me and I smile and wave. I can't help but think that the next rumor I'll hear is that I'm bipolar. I hum a tune to myself and walk with a bounce into Mrs. Tarintino's kitchen. She looks at me and smiles warmly, "Good morning, Vegeta!" I give her a nod and seat myself at the table. I tap my fingers on the side of my chair and then chose to speak.  
  
"Have you seen Josie?"  
  
"She hasn't come down yet," Mrs. Tarintino informs me before moving onto a different subtopic, "Shouldn't you know where she is? You've been seeing her a lot recently." Even with her back turned, I can tell the old woman is grinning.  
  
"I live above her, not with her," I calmly respond.  
  
"For how often you two are together, maybe you should," she not-so-subtley suggests. Balancing plates with expertise, she sets the table accordingly. I invite myself to breakfast and begin to chow down. "No smart-ass remark?" Mrs. Tarintino says with mock-disappointment, "Well then, it looks like Cupid's arrow really has struck." I can't help it - I roll my eyes.  
  
"If Cupid's arrow struck, you'd have known the instant it did," I reply truthfully. Like any normal guy, there's one way I _especially_ like to show my affection. Poor Bulma found out the hard way what it meant to.. have my heart. To be honest, I'm surprised we only had two children. Thank goodness there's birth control. I don't think my sanity could've taken that many little brats running around. Then there would've been the issue of finding time to do it. It was hard to get the two of us secluded, what with the way she worked and I trained. Maybe busy schedules was enough form of birth control all of its own. I mean, after a long day of work what you really want to do _is_ sleep. It wasn't like we were quiet either. Hence how Mrs. Tarintino (as well as the entire neighboring apartments) would know if I was "in love" with Josie.  
  
"Besides, I'm too old for Josie," I firmly state. It's very true. I view her as nothing more than a child, though I'm sure she wouldn't appreciate knowing that.  
  
"Nonsense!" my land-lady retorts, "You don't look a day older than thirty!" And she's right. Unfortunately.  
  
I'm not sure what possesses me to ask, but right then I question her, "Mrs. Tarintino? ...Where's Mr. Tarintino?" She drops a plate which I catch with ease. I set it down for her and do not move my gaze from her face. Taking a seat, she smiles forcefully and releases a sigh.  
  
"You've caught me off guard, Vegeta," she speaks softly and with a slight tremble, but she regains her balance, "It's been some time since I've last spoken of him. Carlos died a long time ago. Both he and Rosalind - our daughter - were in an automobile accident. And I bet I can predict what you're thinking right now. I bet you're wondering how I can stay so happy, yes?" I merely nod. "I wasn't at first. After the accident, I blamed myself for what had happened. I had wanted to make something special for dinner, but I had needed several ingredients for the recipe that we didn't have at home. Carlos said to just hold off and save the recipe for later, but I insisted on making something special for them. If they hadn't of gone that evening, they would still be with me.  
  
"For a long while, all I could think about was that if I had just been less stubborn everything would've been ok. There where plenty of times when I said 'if only this' and 'if only that'. Then, one Sunday, after church, I realized something. A lot of people ask why God would let that happen. How could He just let my husband and daughter die? God gave _us_ free will though. It was not my fault for what happened to Carlos and Rosalind, nor was it God's - it was with the man who acted irresponsibly and had decided to drink then drive. I had tried denying it for so long that I almost believed it. You see, if it was not Carlos and Rosalind, then it could have been anyone else. In the end, you cannot blame the innocent, Vegeta." She smiles. It is a warm, radiant smile, and she goes back to her tasks at hand.  
  
"I moved on. Sort of. I made this house, this home that you live in," Mrs. Tarintino talks in a way that I can only describe as emotional, "And now, you are all my children." Looking over her shoulder, she gives me a tear-filled smile. She refuses to cry though. She is such a strong woman.  
  
I finish my breakfast, thank Mrs. Tarintino, and slip out the front door.  
  
I go walking.  
  
I go to the mall, and to the movies.  
  
I go to all the places Bulma, Trunks, and Bra would have loved to go.  
  
At times, I cry. Strangers stop to console me or hand me tissues. Others stare, ignore, and even make fun of me, but I don't mind. The tears are not the same today. I'm not crying because I believe that I'm stupid or because I can't stand living. No, I cry because I love my family and miss them. For the first time I can recall, I feel better after I cry rather than just tired. I know nothing has changed, but somehow.. these particular tears make the ache ebb.  
  
Certainly, I could've acted more responsibly. Certainly, there were things I could've done differently that may have prevented the tragedy. However, Mrs. Tarintino is right. I did not kill my family. I did not kill my friends. I had been trying to protect them, but let my own selfish motives get the way of that. Ultimately, it wasn't my fault. That bastard had a choice, just like me, and he chose the path of destruction I had given up so many years before.  
  
For the first time since the funeral, I visit the bank. I know that Bulma has left a safety deposit box, but I've never felt that I deserved whatever she's left to me, so I've ignored it. Today is different. Today, I want to know what she has hidden away. After proofs of identification are given and verification of my status and legality are thoroughly checked, I'm allowed entrance to the vault. I am given a single, small key and a number. This feels like it should be more difficult, but it's a breeze. I find it with ease, extract it from the wall, and use the key. I don't know why, but I hold my breath before opening the lid.  
  
Papers.  
  
Papers fill the inside.  
  
And on the top, an envelope addressed to me.  
  
I nearly drop the box I'm shaking so bad, so instead I sit on the ground in an effort to prevent that. Her handwriting.. it's been so long since I've seen it. Careful, neat, and tidy.. these words could all describe the way my name had been written in her perfect cursive. I breathe deeply and evenly now to keep myself calm. With anticipation and anxiety wreaking havoc on my nerves, I open the envelope. Unfolding the letter inside, I steel myself and refuse to rush.  
  
_Vegeta,  
  
If you're reading this, then I have already passed on.  
I must say two things immediately. One, is that I love you.  
Two, is that I'm sorry. I don't think I got to tell you enough how  
much you mean to me. I think you were always worried that I  
thought you as second to Goku, but in my mind, you were  
always number one. I think it's unfair that you compared your-  
self to Goku so often when you two were nothing alike. Well,  
I love you Vegeta, and that's that, and I'm sorry because I've  
left you alone. I know you're strong, but I know you can be  
lonely too. In essence, I'm sorry to leave you in the state in  
which we first met.  
  
In this box are all the important documents regarding  
the family and the business. I know Trunks can take care of  
these items, but I want you to know that you are in possession.  
I'm sure you'd be excited to hear that you are now the proud  
owner of Capsule Corperation via 51 shares in stock. Also  
regarding stock, I've put some down in other companies. All  
the information needed to collect, if that is the case, is in this  
box as well. Please, don't ignore the bonds and other goodies  
I've placed in here.  
  
Try to smile a little, okay, Vegeta? I know it's hard  
for you, especially at this time, but the only thing I can leave  
you with is my money and my memory. Just try to view this  
as me treating you like the prince you are. You're the wealthiest  
and most powerful man on the planet now, which I hope you  
won't soon forget.  
  
Send my love to Trunks and Bra.  
  
Love,  
Bulma_  
  
I'd started crying the first time she'd written "I love you", but I don't think I've ever felt more uplifted in my life. She loved me, trusted me, and believed in me. Instead of feeling as if she's wrong, I know that she's right. Instead of thinking she shouldn't have loved me, trusted me, and believed in me, I know that she was the most intelligent woman on this planet. She loved me even though I had cursed, ranted, and raved at her. She trusted me even though I initially came to this planet to destroy it. She believed in me even though Kakkarot was stronger. Why? I do not know exactly. What I do know is that Bulma was capable of seeing something in people that others could not. She saw something in me, so instead now of trying to refute myself, I will put my faith into her. I read over the letter again.  
  
_I love you, Vegeta, and that's that._  
I yearn for her companionship.  
  
_Try to smile a little, okay, Vegeta?_  
A smile comes to my face, for her.  
  
_You're the wealthiest and most powerful man on the planet now._  
What will I do with this wealth? This power?  
  
Another piece of the puzzle fits into place and a smirk comes to my lips. This is an expression I haven't made in a long time, but I like the feel of it again. Satisfaction washes through me - warm and fulfilling. Getting up off the floor, I head outside the vault and approach a teller. After my request is given, I'm ushered into an office where a man in a very expensive suit greets me. His name is "Kenneth Henslin", or so declares the name plaque on his desk.  
  
"Mr. Vegeta," he greets me while standing and extending his hand. I shake it firmly and look into his eyes; he does likewise. "Please, take a seat," he offers and gestures, and I accept. While sitting as well, he gives me a little grin, "You have me at a loss, Mr. Vegeta. It seems you a requesting to transfer funds from a fifty-eight year old claim to a personal account?"  
  
"Yes, that is my intention," I respond.  
  
"You realize that Bulma Briefs had left her will in a safety deposit box so that only a family member could retrieve it?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"And that that will is fifty-eight years old?"  
  
"I would be led to believe that age does not make it any less legitimate or less legal."  
  
"I understand, Mr. _Vegeta_," I hear him enunciate my name differently this time, "but do you also realize that Bulma Briefs had been married for thirty-one years?"  
  
"Thirty-two years, sir," I correct him, "and yes, sir. I should know, as I was married to her."  
  
He grins again, but this time it's a little more sarcastic than before, "Please, sir. Records prove that Bulma Briefs was married to a man named Vegeta, but our records also show that that man was forty-two when they were wed."  
  
I merely nod to him.  
  
"Sir, many would applaude you for getting this far, but we are not that.. easy to manipulate. If Vegeta were still alive, he'd be-"  
  
"-132-" we say as one.  
  
He pauses to.. _look_ at me before continuing, "and frankly, you do not look 132. Granted, you have a striking physical similarity to him, that does not gain you access to this poor woman's money."  
  
"Well," I say calmly, "I'd hardly call her a _poor_ woman, but I'd have to admit that a man called Vegeta coming in fifty-eight years later to finally claim her safety deposit box and her will is a bit suspicious. However, I think if you look over my credentials you'll find that-"  
  
"Sir, please," Ken implores, "don't make this any more difficult on yourself. The proper authorities have been notified and will be here shortly." Oh great, the yuppie called the cops. This is about to be ten time more interesting - and complicated - than it should of been. I relax in my chair and give a small shake of my head.  
  
"Don't worry," I tell him ahead of time, "I understand why you've done this."  
  
"Thank you for your cooperation," he respectfully replies. At least he isn't a huge asshole about it.  
  
It seems like hardly any time has passed when the police do arrive. I turn in my chair to greet them and a stupid smile breaks out across my face. The officers halt in surprise as well.  
  
"Vegeta?" Officer Kimbell inquires.  
  
"What are you doing here?" Officer Greenly asks, "They said they had a.. situation in here."  
  
"That's apparently me," I respond with a chuckle.  
  
"This _gentleman_," Ken interrupts our reunion, "is attempting to transfer money from a coporate account to a personal account by impersonating the person the claim was left to."  
  
"Who was the claim left to, and by whom?" Greenly instantly springs into action.  
  
"He's impersonating Vegeta, the widow of Bulma Briefs," Mr. Henslin explains. Both of the officers look at me as if to say with their expressions alone, _Say it ain't so.._  
  
I recline in the chair and make myself comfortable, "Ask Mrs. Tarintino how long I've lived with her. Then ask her for the name of the last psychiatrist I saw - Dr. Reilly, then ask that the good ol' doc who my previous shrink was, and just go down the line. Don't worry, I have all day."  
  
---  
  
It takes all day. They also had to take me down the station. You know, in case I really was just trying to steal money. Needless to say, I've left several people completely flabbergasted from this whole ordeal.  
  
Before I lived with Mrs. Tarintino, I did see a shrink called Dr. Reilly. Her records showed that I'd seen several doctors over the course between three and four decades - I've forgotten how long exactly. Before that, I have a medical file from West City Hospital detailing how I wasn't injured in a forty-car pile-up. Better still, thanks to my little prior hospital visit, my DNA was on file. A short trip to the hospital later proved my identity and I was able to leave custody as the richest and most powerful man on Earth. I am also the oldest and healthiest.  
  
I can't help but wonder though...  
After Josie gets better and moves on, what will there be for me?  
I know I'm going to have to say good-bye eventually, but what happens after that?  
  
Where will I go? What will I do?  
Stay with Mrs. Tarintino..?  
Maybe.  
  
Move on?  
I can only hope. 


End file.
